


The Good Orc

by WorseOmens



Series: Good Omens AUs [6]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Ear Piercings, Elf Aziraphale, Family Fluff, Idiots in Love, Isengard, M/M, Orc Crowley, Rites of Passage, Rohan, Tolkien AU, Tolkien’s Original Languages
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 00:54:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25614676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WorseOmens/pseuds/WorseOmens
Summary: (Follows from “The Orc & The Elf” and “What Remains of a Heart”)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley
Series: Good Omens AUs [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663576
Comments: 89
Kudos: 245





	1. Isengard’s Traitor

"I'm going to kill that wizard," Crowley grumbled under his breath, traipsing through the mud and smoke. Isengard's central tower, the great black spire of Orthanc, reached into the white sky above, looking out over the ruined landscape. Crowley had passed through this valley before Saruman had ripped his canyons and built his machines of war; none of that life remained. The plains heaved with orcs, and the air rang with the strike of metal at every hour of the day and night.

The wizard that Crowley was referring to, however, was not Saruman, though he'd gladly take a pop at him too, if the opportunity arose. No, he was talking about the wizard who had shown up in his cosy, quiet little cottage some weeks before, drunk their tea, eaten their food, and then had the gall to finish off a lovely evening by saying _oh, could I trouble you to run an errand for me, Crowley?_ It was all downhill from there. He should’ve guessed he was up to no good when he'd arrived on the back of an eagle, beaten and bruised and refusing to explain why. He'd insisted he was fine. All under control, he said! _Pushdug,_ that's what Crowley said to that. 

It was that evening, after a perfectly sociable dinner with an old wizard who had visited many times before, that things took a sour turn. He was wounded because Saruman - his boss, far as Crowley gathered - had turned against him. Sauron was rising again. The One Ring had resurfaced, far to the west. The vast, inevitable cloud of war hung on the horizon, spilling from the fires of Mordor with endless fervour. Middle Earth itself hung in the balance. 

... and that's where Crowley came in. Gandalf needed a spy in Isengard, and nobody would be able to blend in better than an orc. Crowley could well be the only one of his kind who would stand against Sauron; he may survive into the so-called Age Of The Orc, but his family would not. He'd lose everything. There, in the candlelight of his home, sat between his beloved husband and precious daughter, he knew he had to act. There was no choice. If he could help turn the tide against Sauron, to save the earth and everything he loved, then that was what he had to do. Aziraphale and Seron took some convincing, but ultimately, they saw the same ultimatum that he did. Either they sat back and waited to die, or they pushed back against the coming Armageddon. 

So, that was how he'd ended up stuck in a miserable stinking pit, labouring night and day, being pushed around by other orcs like in his youth. The Uruk-hai were even worse than the Gundabad orcs... He just kept his head down, and his ears open. He was a spy. He did his fair share of creeping between the pits, eavesdropping on the commanders, and talking to the humans that skulked around in search of something to dull their minds. They didn't care what they said to an orc. Everyone assumed Crowley was loyal to Sauron, so what did they care if they told him something like... how Saruman ensnared Théoden, king of Rohan, in a mind-control spell, for example? When he got word from Gandalf, he'd tell him so. He'd tell him everything — and give him a piece of his mind while he was at it. 

Nights were dark in Isengard. The smoke blotted out the stars, and the earth sheltered the fires from the barren plains. Crowley sat on the edge of a pit, looking down into the writhing mess below. This place never slept. If anyone spotted him idle, they'd beat him around the head and throw him back into the rift. It was nothing he hadn't endured before, but that didn't mean he liked it. He looked away from the forges below, and turned his eyes toward the shadowy trees of Fanghorn Forest. They reminded him of home. How he wished he could go back, to the foothills of the Misty Mountains where there lay a little cottage in the woods. Aziraphale would be waiting for him there, worrying, wondering if he was okay. Seron and Rover would, too. Tauriel had returned from her hunting trip just before he left, and had time to assure him that she’d look after them while he was away. His heart ached, thinking of all he'd left behind, but he couldn't let it show in daylight. Weakness had no place here. 

A flicker of light drew him from his homesickness. There, in Fanghorn, he'd seen something... He got to his feet, watching the tiny pinprick of light bob back and forth between the trees, far in the distance. That was odd. Glancing over his shoulder, he left the edge of the pit, and began to jog toward the woods. The shadows and constant activity would cover his path easily enough. 

The closer he drew to the light, the less it moved. The endless noise of Isengard faded to a dull hum as he walked further and further toward the forest. The shape of the trees loomed overhead. He cowered in their shadow, feeling deeply unwelcome in this place. Up close, it no longer reminded him so much of home, especially not with that strange ethereal light barely six feet ahead of him. He stopped. It outlined a tall, robed figure on the tree-line.

"You... I know you..." said the figure, taking another step forward. Crowley flinched, ready to bolt. "You are a friend, are you not?"

He squinted, shielding his eyes as the light glared, then dimmed to a more manageable level. Finally, he could recognise Gandalf, emerging from the gloom. "Yeah, it's me. Crowley," he said, looking down at himself. He couldn't blame him for being unsure. He didn't look himself at all; his hair was overgrown and matted, his skin caked with grime, and his clothes were little more than makeshift rags. He tilted his head, taking in Gandalf's white robes and hair. "Going for a new look, are we?"

"I suppose," he said, though he didn't sound certain. He seemed a little off, as if he wasn't totally sure where he was, or what terrible fortress lay at Crowley's back. "I... I sent you to spy on this place..."

"Yep," he said, realising that if he started whinging about his working conditions like he'd wanted to, he'd be wasting his breath. Gandalf had always liked smoking. He'd probably just overdone it before coming to meet him this time. "Listen, Saruman has King Théoden under some kind of spell, and one of his agents is with him. Grima Wormtongue. He's sending out raiding parties every day, pillaging the undefended settlements in Rohan, and he's amassing the Uruk-hai for war."

Gandalf nodded sagely, a troubled expression flickering across his face. He reached out, and touched his shoulder. "Crowley, my friend..." he said urgently. "You must escape this place, as soon as you can, but you cannot follow me through Fanghorn. The ents will not welcome you."

He huffed. "Course they won't," he mumbled bitterly.

"You must avoid the forest, and make for Edoras, in Rohan. I will go ahead and meet you there, and see that Théoden welcomes you," he said, raising his chin. "Be wary on your path, friend. Hide your face until you are safe inside Meduseld."

Crowley grunted. "You're lucky I'm well-travelled, or I wouldn't have understood half the things you just said," he said, pulling his hood up around his head. If Gandalf was saying that he could leave Isengard, he didn't need to tell him twice. "I'd best get going, then. It's a long walk to Edoras."

It was, indeed, long. So long, in fact, that after liberating Théoden and banishing Grima, Gandalf began to worry that Crowley had been cut down on the road. He hoped not. He had a sneaking suspicion that Aziraphale's wrath could be a serious threat, if this spying mission had cost him his husband. Telling him that Crowley had aided in saving Rohan from Saruman's forces would be a poor comfort in the unforgiving, war-torn days to come. It was weighing terribly on his mind. The guilt, most of all... Had he robbed a family of their dear sharkû?

But then, relief; a soldier entered the hall of Meduseld, Théoden's keep, with strange news. "There's someone outside to see you, Mister Gandalf sir," he said uneasily. "He refuses to show his face until you arrive."

Gandalf began to smile. Théoden shot him an uneasy glance. "Let the poor man in from the cold, there's a good chap," he said, relief washing over him in waves. "He's come a long way to meet me here, and Théoden will want to thank the man who brought his condition to my attention."

Théoden stepped forward, and nodded to second Gandalf's command. The guard hurried back to the door, ushering in a cloaked figure. The shadows under his hood concealed his face, and he kept his arms tucked beneath the cloak as he came forward, turning his head minutely from side to side, as if anticipating an attack. Aragorn watched him closely, sitting with Legolas and Gimli at a nearby table. This stranger held an air of mystery about him, and that did not always bode well. Legolas felt it, too. Gimli looked between the elf and the man, bemused by their brooding expressions as the hooded figure walked up the hall. He stopped before Gandalf and Théoden, and inclined his head slightly. He did not bow. 

"Tell me, friend of Gandalf," Théoden said, holding his head high. "What is your name? I believe I owe you a debt."

"Crowley," he replied. The voice seemed almost disembodied in the deep shadows under his hood. He said nothing else, turning expectantly toward Gandalf; he wouldn't move the hood until he knew he wasn't going to get shot at. He'd already recognised Legolas when he arrived. He just hoped that, in the two centuries since he’d escaped Mirkwood, the elven prince had forgotten his face. 

The wizard cleared his throat, and put on his best diplomatic smile. "Crowley was my spy in Isengard. He has much to tell us, to better inform us of the enemy's might. He is more than worthy of our trust," he said. He shot a meaningful glance over at Aragorn, calling upon the faith he had in him, to trust his judgement. Then, he looked back at Crowley. "You are among friends, Crowley. You can remove your hood now."

With a reluctant grumble, Crowley reached up and pushed it back. There was an audible gasp, and Théoden's face turned thunderous at the sight of grey skin and yellow eyes. "Uruk-hai!" he hissed, grasping for his blade.

Crowley flinched back. Gandalf grabbed the king's wrist, stopping him from drawing his weapon. Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli, who had also jumped to their feet, hesitated. "Crowley is no Uruk-hai," the wizard shouted, shocking them into silence. "He hails from Gundabad, and he owes no allegiance to Sauron. You owe this orc your life, Théoden King!"

"How came you by such strange friends, Gandalf?" Théoden said, wrenching his hand free and glaring. "How can we trust his word?"

"I have known him for sixty years now, and he has lived peacefully all that time," he said, leaning on his staff in relief when the king stood down. He gave a small smile, relaxing a little as he began to speak fondly of Crowley’s life. "He has his own vegetable garden, in a small homestead north of Lórien. He would never have gone within spitting distance of Orthanc if I hadn't asked him to, for the good of Middle Earth."

Aragorn stepped forward, moving to join the debate. Gimli rumbled uneasily. "Careful now, Aragorn. Don't get too close. They bite!" he warned, eyeing Crowley, who curled his lip in return. 

Acknowledging him with a nod, Aragorn stepped up beside Théoden. "Information is a commodity we cannot afford to forego. If we know our enemy, we can face them," he said. Crowley twitched and said nothing. He'd seen thousands of Uruk-hai in Isengard, and facing them head-on seemed like suicide to him. Still... face them or don't face them, their fate was the same.

Théoden paused, considering his words. "Have you such information, orc?"

"I have a name, first of all," he said, crossing his arms. Gandalf rolled his eyes at them both, posturing despite both serving the same cause. "And yeah. I do, but don't worry, the moment I tell you what I know, I'm leaving. I've got a family to get back to."

Before anyone could speak, Gandalf cleared his throat awkwardly. "Actually... Crowley, I've already sent word to them," he said, avoiding Théoden's eye-line. "They'll be well on their way to Rohan by now."

He bristled. "What?" he barked, lurching in fright. He thought they'd be safe by the mountain pass, where they could take a quick trip west if they needed to escape the advancing borders of Mordor.

"I swore that I would reunite you with them as soon as your task was complete," he said. "They are coming to meet you here, old friend, and there's not much I could have done to stop them — as you well know!"

He groaned, tugging at his greasy, overgrown hair in frustration. He was right. Aziraphale and Seron had fewer self-preservation instincts between them than Crowley had in his little finger. They'd have come charging over as soon as they knew he was alive, regardless. "Skai!" Crowley exclaimed suddenly, looking down at himself. He was unrecognisable. He was filthy, smelly, streaked in ash and metal dust, walking with a slight stoop as his exhausted muscles strained to keep him standing. "They can't see me like this! I look like a pig — an ugly pig!"

"Or an average orc," Gimli muttered, giving Legolas a conspiratorial nudge. The elf smirked.

Théoden provided Crowley with everything he asked for, and he was quite specific. He wanted hair clippers, a nail file, soap, clean water, bath oils, fresh clothes... A few sly comments were made, speculating if he even knew how to use half the things he asked for. She-orcs couldn't be _that_ hard to impress, surely! 

"Are ye sure he's our ally, Gandalf?" Gimli asked, once Crowley was gone, resting his hands on his axe. 

"Quite sure," he said, taking a seat at a table. Legolas stared into space, with a lingering suspicion in his mind that he'd seen that orc before. But why? He didn't encounter those creatures unless they were on the battlefield. He couldn't fathom it. 

"Whatever his services to our cause, I do not see why I should have to open the hall of my fathers to be overrun with orcs," Théoden said sourly, thinking of Crowley's incoming family. How many children did he have? A whole litter? Would they all be as supposedly trustworthy as their father?

"You will not be overrun," he said in exasperation. "In fact, I think his family will surprise you."

"Surprise us how?" asked Aragorn curiously.

He gave a wry smile. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you," he said. "In fact, — "

The far door opened, and he cut himself off abruptly. Éowyn hesitated, noticing his sudden silence. "Am I interrupting?" she asked, taking a small step back. 

Théoden smiled warmly, beckoning her in. "Nothing so important that I would turn away my own niece at the door," he said. He was relieved to see her face. She brought him the simple comfort of family, after the recent death of his son. She came to his side, returning the smile as he wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He looked meaningfully at Gandalf. "There are lighter topics to be spoken of, besides the beasts of Isengard."

Crowley scrubbed his skin clean first. He knew better than to jump straight into the bath and turn the water black; he used a succession of cloths and a mop-buckets first, and yet his bathwater was still grey when he emerged. No matter. His skin was clean, softened and lightly fragranced by the soaps and oils. Next, he trimmed and filed his claws back to more reasonable lengths. All the while, he chewed on mouthfuls of mint, trying to freshen his breath. He hadn't caught scurvy, thank someone, but the only way he could clean his teeth in Isengard had been to chew on bones. It kept them white, but did nothing for his breath. Finally, he picked up the clippers, and turned on his hair. He worked carefully, cutting away the knots and tangles, bringing it back from shoulder length to his usual short, ruffled cut. He threw the blades aside, pushing his fingers through his hair and working it back to a fashionably unkempt style.

There. He felt like himself again. Relieved, he kicked aside his old clothes, and pulled on the replacements he'd been given. They were plain boots and trousers, and a dark red shirt emblazoned with the crest of Rohan. Not his usual style, but he'd make it work. He donned it, but unpicked the drawstrings around the collar, letting the shirt hang open attractively, and rolled up the sleeves to his elbows to reveal his toned forearms. When his husband arrived, he intended to be _irresistible._

He left the bathing room, sniffing the air to remind himself which direction he ought to go. Meduseld wasn't especially complicated as floor plans went, but until a roving orc became commonplace, he ought to stay close to Gandalf. He reached the doors to the main hall, and pushed them open, stepping into view.

Everything fell silent. The warm torchlight of Meduseld loved Crowley, tinging the contours of his face with gold and making his yellow eyes gleam with enigmatic, exotic beauty. He made his way toward the king, stood tall, with a saunter that swung his hips in a way you couldn't ignore. One of the guards had a sudden realisation about his sexuality. A couple more began to question theirs. Éowyn blushed, her jaw falling slack. Even Gimli's eyes lingered longer than they should've. Evidently, Crowley did know how to use the things he'd requested, and it was possible he might've done a bit too well in getting himself prepared to impress Aziraphale. 

He rejoined the group near the head of the hall, his thumbs hooked through his belt-loops to feign nonchalance. He could feel the stares on him. He cleared his throat, and nodded awkwardly in greeting. "Thanks for the stuff," he said to Théoden, who nodded dumbly. Crowley was only recognisable by his yellow eyes... eyes that noticed the way Éowyn's gaze wandered down to his half-open shirt, verging dangerously on interest. He set his jaw, indignant. "What's she looking at?"

Éowyn startled, dipping her head in embarrassment, especially when her uncle turned, slightly horrified to see her blushing over an orc. "My apologies, sir," she said. "I was not aware that elves could be so... diverse, in their appearance."

There was a beat of silence. Legolas looked quite offended. "Elves?" Crowley echoed, somewhere between amused and disdainful. Éowyn nodded, bemused. No one had the heart to correct her... well, almost no one. "What is that, some sort of pick-up line?"

Aragorn and Théoden bristled, and Éowyn blushed darker. Gandalf put his head in his hands. Crowley, never one to show much respect for royalty, sneered. "I'm an orc, love," he said, baring his pointed teeth into a broad, mocking smile. Éowyn blanched, gripping her uncle's arm. "And I'm flattered, but you're barking up the wrong tree."

A new voice piped up from behind. "I'm surprised you show such restraint," Legolas said, circling around to draw level with the orc. "I know your face. The Greenwood has never forgotten your crime."

Crowley pursed his lips. "What crime would this be?" he said, tense. Gandalf watched the two men closely, poised to intervene. 

"Defiling and murdering one of my kinsmen in cold blood," he replied. Shock rippled through the room. Théoden wrenched his niece behind him, enraged that this predator had even dared to look at her, much less make such vulgar suggestions. He hadn't forgotten Grima's fixation on her, and he would not see it replaced by an even more malevolent force. Crowley snarled, turning on Legolas.

"Take that back," he barked. He lurched forward, only to have Gandalf's staff bar his path. He stopped, but he couldn't suppress the low, rolling growl in his chest. “Take it back!”

“I will not,” he said. “You know what you did.” 

"I never hurt him. Not _once_ did I ever hurt him!" Crowley shouted, baring his teeth as his words mottled with snarls. “He loves me, he chose _me_!”

"Liar," he said, raising his chin. "You stole him from my father's hall to satisfy your own wicked lust, and it cost him his life."

Crowley burned with rage. "If there was no wizard standing between me and you, _olog-pushdug,_ I'd — "

"Crowley!" Gandalf bellowed, silencing him. "I did not bring you here to lose your temper over a simple misunderstanding."

"Misunder — ?" he said, jabbing a finger at the elf. "You heard what he just accused me of! Me, hurting _my_ alba? Globum agh ash búbhosh bagronk!"

"I know. If you would calm yourself, my friend, we can amend the record," he said hesitantly lowering his staff back to the floor. Crowley didn't attack the elf-prince. Théoden's stare was fixed accusingly on the wizard; he was more than prepared to believe that this unfortunately alluring orc concealed far darker intentions. "Legolas is referring to the story of the Lost Captain of the Greenwood Guard."

Aragorn frowned. "So it is true," he said, with a mistrustful glance at Crowley. "He is a criminal."

"The official version... took liberties with the truth," replied the wizard with a note of disapproval. Crowley scoffed. "The Captain was not stolen from the palace, as Legolas's father would have you believe. He chose to leave — with Crowley."

"Why would an elf forsake his people for the fate of his enemy?" Théoden said scornfully, still shielding his niece. Éowyn had turned very pale, glancing between her uncle and Aragorn, watching their tumultuous emotions.

"For love," Gandalf said. Crowley crossed his arms, longing to have his husband back by his side, like a deep ache in his bones. Aragorn felt a pang of sympathy.

"Impossible," Legolas said, scowling deeply. "Captain Aziraphale was an honourable man, and a servant of my father."

"Whether you believe me or not, Legolas Greenleaf, you will soon see the proof with your own eyes," Gandalf said, running out of patience. "Aziraphale is already on his way to reunite with his beloved."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gundabad Orkish:
> 
> Pushdug — dungfilth; Crowley uses it to mean “bullshit“
> 
> Skai — exclamation of discontent/contempt
> 
> Olog-pushdug** — troll dungfilth, effectively “trollshit”, used as an insult
> 
> Globum agh ash búbhosh bagronk — Literally “foolishness and one great cesspool”, effectively meaning something like “Lies and slander!” or “Stupidity and a pile of horse-shit”
> 
> **Words I created by combining fragments of Tolkien’s original Black Speech


	2. Friends

"Ada? Are we there yet?"

"Asking won't make the trip go faster, you know," Aziraphale replied, calling over the wind whipping by their ears as Rover loped across the moorland. They'd crossed the border into Rohan, and he'd been looking out for any sign of Edoras ever since.

Seron held onto his waist tightly, tired and cold. They'd been riding since first light. "I know," she said. She’d grown into a beautiful young elf, now in her sixties. "I just miss him."

"We both do, my dear," he said wearily. He and Crowley had been together for over two hundred years now, and this was the longest they'd spent apart in all that time. He'd hardly ever felt so alone. He was constantly worried, constantly trying to hide it from Seron... She was no fool, though. She knew. They were lucky to have had Tauriel around to help them cover the workload of the cottage. She'd stayed behind to guard the homestead while they went to find Crowley. 

Seron gasped. "Look!" she cried, pointing. The sprawl of buildings that formed Edoras gathered in the distance. Aziraphale beamed.

"Onward, Rover! The end is in sight!" he cried. The warg barked in delight, and put on a burst of speed. 

People screamed and scattered as a warg charged through the streets. Rover didn't care. There was a familiar scent leading him onward, drawing him toward his master, the one who had raised him and cared for him since his birth. He bounded up the steps to Meduseld, skidding to a halt before the doors. The guards leapt to attention, pointing their spears. Rover snarled. His hackles rose, and he felt Aziraphale slide off his back.

"Hello!" he said, as if they weren't threatening him. "Gandalf sent for us. Now, if you would be so kind as to let us in..."

The guard hesitated. Gandalf’s name had weight, and there was already an orc in Edoras, but they couldn’t just ignore the giant wolf at the doors. "The warg stays outside."

"Why? Do you suppose you can control him better than I can?" he said, arching a brow. The guard looked at the elf, then back at the wolf. "We are friends of Gandalf. We're not looking for trouble."

Reluctantly, the guard lowered his spear, and jerked his head for them to be allowed inside. Seron hopped off Rover's back, leading him eagerly into the hall by her father's side. She wasn't used to large stone halls, or humans — Ada had lectured her, at length, on the dangers of human men, though. And women. And elves. And anyone who wasn't family, in essence. Still, she had a firm grasp of short-swords and scimitars, so she could handle herself. The warmth of Meduseld was a welcome change. At the far end of the hall, there stood a group of men talking amongst themselves, who all turned to see who had barged unannounced into the room. Most of them looked very alarmed to see a warg in the hall.

Legolas's jaw dropped. Gimli looked up at him, disconcerted, as he stared at the two elves walking up to meet them. "Is that him, laddie? The Lost Captain?" he said quietly. Legolas nodded dumbly.

No sooner had he spoken, Crowley pushed his way through Aragorn and Gandalf, hesitating. It was almost too good to be true. He’d been living in limbo, without his family, for so long... and here they were, as perfect as the day he'd left them, within his reach at last. Seron cried out as soon as she laid eyes on him.

"Sharkû!" she yelled, sprinting at him. He broke into a run, meeting her halfway as she took a flying leap into his arms. She clung to him so tight her arms trembled, burying her face in his chest. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

He rubbed her back, shushing her, pressing kisses to the top of her head. "I missed you too, masgûl," he said, fighting tears. He stroked her hair, combing through it with his claws, when someone cleared their throat. He looked up, and choked; a tear slipped out of his eye. Oh, that wasn't fair... "Alba."

Aziraphale smiled, dewey-eyed, as Crowley held out his arm and dragged him in to join the hug. Finally, _finally,_ he had them back, right where they belonged, in his arms again. Love coursed through him like adrenaline. That long absence drained away as if it had only been moments, not week after painful week. "I'm so glad you're okay," Aziraphale said, lifting his head to look him in the eye. They lingered and, for a split second, there was no war, no species gap, no stunned spectators... Crowley leaned in, pressing his lips against his. It was sweet and fleeting, but infinitely precious. 

"Mas ash... Mas durbûk," he murmured, resting his forehead against his. Aziraphale soaked in the praise like a snake in the sunshine.

Seron rolled her eyes with a smile. "Agh _krimpûk_ , sharkû?"

"Sha! Gimb carnish, ghâshum," he said, giving her a flick on the head. She laughed. "At least you haven't changed while I've been gone."

Now settled by the sight of his husband, alive and well, Aziraphale noticed the many stares resting on them. He locked eyes with Legolas. "Erm... Crowley, dear," he murmured, catching his attention. "We have an audience."

Finally, the orc began to pay attention. "I don't know what they look so shocked for. I told them my mate was elvish," he said with an especially scornful look at Legolas. He stood tall, one arm wrapped around Aziraphale and the other around Seron. "For those of you who don't know, this is my husband, Aziraphale, and our daughter, Seron."

Gimli frowned. "Seron? Sounds much the same as Sauron to me!"

Aziraphale soured. "It means friend. It's Quenya."

"Aziraphale..." Legolas said, disregarding his dwarvish friend to stare in disbelief at the elf before him. "How can this be? We had given you up for dead... although I'm not sure the reality is much better."

"Oh, for — I think that's a bit melodramatic, don't you, dear boy?" he replied in exasperation, holding tightly to Crowley’s shirt. He’d travelled far, and was in no mood to bicker. "It's been over two hundred years, Legolas, and nobody's come to any harm over it. I do hope we can let sleeping dogs lie by now."

He narrowed his eyes, and nodded toward Seron. If he was too far gone, fine. But what about this other young elf? "And what of your daughter? How came you by her?" 

"Adoption," Crowley piped up, squeezing her shoulders lightly.

"Kidnapping," Legolas said, presuming the worst. He would've expected an orc to steal an elf to raise as his own, but Aziraphale? How could he live with himself?

"Adoption," Seron insisted, holding onto her father's wrist and raising her head higher. "He found me in a burning ruin when I was a baby. He rescued me."

Gandalf took his chance to intervene, clearing his throat and taking control of the conversation. "I can assure you, what Seron says is true. I saw the ruin myself," he said. "Now, I think they've earned themselves some time as a family, at long last. This way, my friends."

The odd family were happy to trail the wizard out of the hostile air of the hall, toward a rear courtyard where they might have some privacy. Left in the silence of the hall, Théoden scowled after them. "Legolas," he said, his voice low and serious. All his worries were still focused on Éowyn; she was young and vulnerable, and he feared she'd make easy prey for an orc looking to expand his tribe. "Tell me. Could this orc have corrupted your kinsman against his will?"

He shared a glance with Aragorn. "If he has, I do not know how." 

"It would be a dangerous ability, if the forces of Sauron discovered it," Aragorn added. Uruk-hai were halfbreeds of man and orc, and if it was discovered that elves could be used in their place... The result would be far more terrible. "But let us not forget, Crowley has been a worthy spy, and Gandalf's trust is not bestowed lightly. If what he says is true, perhaps there may yet be a spark of goodness left in the hearts of orcs."

"What d'you mean by that, Aragorn?" Gimli asked, perturbed.

"Perhaps what we see is not corruption, but salvation. You said yourself, Legolas, that Aziraphale is a good-natured soul," he said. The elven prince gave a terse nod. Aragorn now commanded the room, and they hung on his every word, even if scepticism lingered in their minds. "Is it not possible that such an elf could pull an orc back from the darkness with his love?" 

Legolas seemed to consider it for a moment. It was certainly more palatable than the idea that Aziraphale had fallen to the whims of lust. Perhaps there was still something more noble within him, even now. "Possible," he admitted. "Though it hardly absolves him of his nature. Aziraphale cannot change that."

"It seems to me that he already has," Aragorn said. He looked towards Théoden. "Your majesty, I implore you; if you trust not in the orc, then trust in Gandalf's judgement. He would not lead you astray."

The king sighed deeply. He was conflicted. On one hand, he was right; Crowley had served them well, and was a friend of the wizard. On the other hand, there could be a slim chance that something malevolent lay beneath. "He and his family will have quarter until they are ready to leave," he said, guarded. "But I will not grant them sanctuary in Helm's Deep."

Their reunion was intimate and soft, when Gandalf showed them all to a courtyard where they could be alone. Seron lay against her sharkû's chest, feeling his steady heartbeat against her ear. All was calm. It was a relief when they heard that Théoden would let them stay, at least until they were ready to embark on a trip north, back home. However the war played out, their part in it was over — so they hoped. None of them fancied travelling any closer to Mordor, where evil would first burst its banks and flood the country of Gondor, if all went badly. The future looked bleak, but there was hope. Good people were still at work, holding the line, from the farmers to the soldiers to the wizards and kings who turned the rudder of this vast, unwieldy fate. 

After a while, Seron left her parents, to don finer clothes for the meal that evening, and to let them have some time as a couple. They held back on physical affection while she was around, she knew. They loathed to make her uncomfortable (unless an especially devilish mood overtook them both, in which case, they'd do their utmost to embarrass her with all their soppy displays of affection). As the door swung shut behind her, Aziraphale ran his hand over his husband's chest.

"May I say how fetching you look in these clothes, dear?" he purred. Crowley grinned; finally!

"And here I thought you hadn't noticed," he said, his hand sliding down from his waist, roaming to his backside. "I think red's my colour."

"It brings out your eyes," he replied, before leaning up to kiss him, and then again, and again, until neither one of them bothered to come up for breath. Aziraphale reached up, grasping at his arms to bring him closer, and pulled back with a jolt of surprise. "Good lord!"

"What?"

Aziraphale squeezed Crowley's bicep, fascinated. "You weren't this muscular when you left."

He grinned, flexing his muscles under Aziraphale's palm. The elf let out a small cry of surprise, tinged with interest. "Amazing what hard work actually does to you," Crowley said, skipping over the gruelling 13-hour-if-you're-lucky workdays in the pits of Isengard. He didn't want to relive that. He wanted to keep his family entirely separate from the memory of that rancid, unforgiving place.

“Mmm,” he replied, continuing to feel up and down his arms, familiarising himself with the new sensations at his fingertips.

"Like what you see?" Crowley said, biting his lip and wiggling his eyebrows.

Aziraphale nibbled the inside of his cheek, feeling the taut muscle under his shirt, and finally taking notice of his toned forearms and chest, revealed by the collar hanging open under his collarbones. "Perhaps," he said coyly. "So long as you put this newfound strength to a good use, that is..."

What, precisely, Crowley would be doing with his muscles was an issue for later — after dinner. They arrived as a family in the dining hall. Aziraphale and Crowley were a little more disheveled than they had been before, while Seron had changed into a flowing green dress which had been a present from Tauriel. It came down to her knee, and was formed by layer upon layer of sheer fabric over a silken slip; she accented it with the pewter neck-chain Crowley had made for her when she turned 50. With her hair in braids, woven with wildflowers, she was the very picture of elven beauty. She sat on Crowley's left at the table, opposite Legolas, who was making a concerted effort to ignore her finer qualities; prince or not, staring at her while her orcish father was nearby seemed likely to backfire. Not to mention what Aziraphale could do with a sword! 

Conversation was slow to start as they ate. Eventually, they began to talk amongst themselves, though Gandalf was notably the only person who included Crowley in conversation. Gimli was warming up to Seron; she was no typical elf, with a wicked sense of humour and laid-back demeanour. Aziraphale and Legolas held a strained conversation about the Greenwood. It was short and tense, and both were glad when something else caught their attention. 

Close to the end of the meal, while Aziraphale was mopping his plate with a piece of bread, Seron batted Crowley's shoulder. "Sharkû," she said, drawing his attention. "I almost forgot. Ada said, when we were together again, I needed to ask you whether I'm ready yet. He said you'd know what that means."

Crowley smiled, and shared a knowing look with Aziraphale, who nodded warmly. "About that... Me and Ada have been talking, and he says you did us proud while I was away," he said, and Seron listened intently. The implicit significance of the talk had quietened the voices around the table, who were now quietly eavesdropping. Expressions ranged from deeply suspicious (Legolas and Théoden especially) to curious (Aragorn and Éowyn) to concerned (Gimli) to calm (Gandalf).

"I tried to do what you would've done," she replied, shrugging. She didn't consider helping at home to be anything less than a duty, in the absence of such a huge part of the household. Her words only made Crowley swell with pride. 

"Masgûl," he said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear and lingering there, cupping her face. "We've decided you're ready for your zaghai."

She took a sharp breath, giving a start of surprise. "Really?" she said, amazed. 

"You've grown into a fine young lady, my dear," Aziraphale said, taking Crowley's hand and sharing an overjoyed glance with him. "You have every right to postpone it, of course, but once you're ready, sharkû will make all the necessary preparations."

"Of course I'm ready!" she said, dragging Crowley into a hug, clinging tightly to his chest. He laughed, and kissed the top of her head. Someone cleared their throat, piercing that odd familial bubble.

"Forgive my ignorance, but what is this... zaghai, of which you speak?" Aragorn asked, glancing at Gandalf, who was either staying tactfully silent or just ignorant and hiding it well. 

"Ah. Of course, terribly sorry... We didn't expect to have this talk so publicly," Aziraphale said with a sheepish smile. "A zaghai is an orcish tribal tradition; a rite of passage, if you will. It marks the day when an orcling is acknowledged as an adult in their own right."

"It's one of the few orc traditions I don't mind," Crowley added, with a fond look at Seron. "It's a big day."

"And this rite," Éowyn said, intrigued. "What does it entail?"

"Seron will receive her zaghai-nazg," Crowley said, baffling everyone besides Seron. He pointed at his ear-piercings, three small silver rings, two on his earlobe and one near the tip of his pointed ear. "Piercings."

Legolas snapped. "You would disfigure her ears?" he reviled, his own tingling at the mere notion. An elf's ears should be proud, pristine symbols of their race, untouched by metal and certainly by orcish hands.

Seron jumped in before Crowley could. "It's not disfigurement, it's ornamentation," she said indignantly. "It's cultural. Who are you to argue?"

"You are not an orc," he said, hardening his stare. Aziraphale crossed his arms and huffed audibly.

"But I am an orc's daughter," she said stubbornly. "And I will wear my zaghai-nazg proudly."

"And what would your true parents have thought of this?" he said. "Have you ever considered that? What would they think of you?"

She rolled her eyes. "My _true_ parents are sat next to me. I know what they think," she said, standing from the table. "I'm going to feed Rover. Goodnight."

Crowley let her walk away, but watched her go with concern. He said nothing as she stepped out of the hall, taking a long sip from his cup. His silence was more judgemental than any words. Aziraphale glared at the prince. "Was that really necessary?" he said. “Bringing up her birth parents like that? She doesn’t like to talk about them.”

“Does she even know their names?” Legolas said disdainfully. 

“Orophin and Radril,” Crowley said. “Aziraphale met them. They were our neighbours before they died.”

Gandalf lifted his head in surprise. “Orophin, brother of Haldir?” he said.

Aziraphale thought on it for a moment. “Well, it’s been sixty years since I spoke to them, but I do believe he mentioned a brother in Lórien,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“Hm... no reason,” he said, and got to his feet. Haldir was alive, still a marchwarden of Lórien, and it had been a sharp blow to him when his brother and sister-in-law had been exiled. “If you will excuse me, I should retire for the night.”

“Yes, jolly good idea,” Aziraphale said, taking Crowley’s hand and pulling him up from the table. Better to leave before the dinner conversation turned any more vitriolic. He turned to Théoden. “Thank you ever so much for the hospitality. We will be departing early-on tomorrow, I imagine.”

The king gave a strained, tired smile. “If I do not see you before then, I wish you a safe journey.”

Dawn broke, and Seron woke up beneath a blanket which hadn’t been there when she fell asleep. She sat up, smiling, as she recognised the tartan pattern on it. It was Ada’s. She sat up, folding it up and tucking it into her bag; she’d fallen asleep outside Meduseld, snuggled into Rover’s warm shoulder. The warg was happy for the company, rolling over for belly scratches when he noticed she was awake. She laughed, and began to rub his chest. 

“Who’s a good boy, eh? Who’s a good boy?” she said. His tail wagged happily. 

“You spoil that dog,” said Crowley’s voice from behind. She turned, spotting both her parents by the main doors, all packed and ready to leave. 

“So do you,” she said, grinning. He shrugged, and nudged Rover with his foot to get him back on his paws. Once he was, he threw his saddle over his back, and began to buckle it on.

Aziraphale set his bags down, and knelt beside Seron. He looked relaxed, finally at-ease after long weeks of waiting to hear from Crowley. He was whole again. “Are you alright, my dear?” he said, holding her gently by the shoulders. “The Prince seemed to have upset you last night.”

She rolled her eyes. “I was just irritated. If his Ada’s anything like him, I can see why you left,” she said contemptuously. He chuckled.

“Thranduil is worse, would you believe,” he said, and helped her to her feet. “But let’s not dwell on it. We’ll have your zaghai to celebrate once we got home. Won’t that be a treat?”

“Aunt Tauriel will be confused,” she said with a laugh. 

“Confused but happy for you, I imagine,” he said, patting Rover’s head when the warg began to lick his hand, begging for ear-scritches. “Is there anyone you should like to say goodbye to, before we set off?”

“Only Gandalf,” she said, then glanced at the horizon, still orange with dawn. It was very early. “Though maybe it’s best to let an old man sleep.”

“Ha!” Crowley said. “I don’t get that sort of special treatment. I’m old, too, y’know.”

“Your afternoon naps don’t count as proper sleep, sharkû,” she said, rolling her eyes. Rover got to his feet, laden with bags. They’d be walking much of the way back north, so as not to overburden the poor warg. He could carry two people without much problem, but three would certainly slow him down. 

He was about to retort, until the door to Meduseld creaked open again. They all turned to look, apprehensive; Aragorn stood in the door. He bowed his head. “I do not mean to intrude. I only wished to offer my goodwill,” he said. “I fear Legolas may have left a poor impression of himself last night. He has a good heart, but he is his father’s son.”

Aziraphale and Crowley shared a glance. “We know the type,” Crowley said dryly. Memories of Thorin Oakenshield came to mind; another pompous warlike prince. “What about you, then? You don’t seem bothered by all this.”

“I believe in the love you share,” he said, looking at Aziraphale and Seron. The former beamed; acceptance was a rare thing, for him. “And I cannot ignore that you’ve helped us greatly in the struggle against Saruman. You have my thanks.”

“S’alright,” Crowley said, aloof, uncertain what to do in the face of genuine gratitude. 

“I count us as friends,” he said, inclining his head. “I wish your family good fortune — and I congratulate you on your zaghai, Seron.”

She perked up at that. “Oh, thank you,” she said. “Perhaps you can visit us one day, after this war is over.”

He smiled sadly. “I wish I could share your optimism, but I fear that there will be few victors left before all is done, for better or worse.”

“Hm. That’s cheery,” she replied facetiously. Her dry response shocked a small chuckle from him. “Doesn’t excuse you from a dinner invitation, I hope you realise.”

He nodded, unable to fully rid his lips of a smile, especially as Crowley snickered while buckling the last of the saddlebags to Rover’s side. “Of course. Forgive my cynicism, my lady.”

“The burden of a leader,” Aziraphale said sagely, rubbing Seron’s back. A cold wind blew over the moor as a new day began, pushing them all yet further into the unknown. “We shall have to be optimistic for you, Mister Aragorn. Until next time.”

“Until then, my friends. Safe travels.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gundabad Orkish:
> 
> Mas ash — my one
> 
> Mas durbûk** — “my rule-all”; my reason-to-be, my love (durb = rule, ûk=all) 
> 
> Agh krimpûk**? — And bind-all? (Effectively, Seron just said Crowley is whipped for Aziraphale)
> 
> Sha! Gimb carnish, ghâshum** — Translated to mean “Ugh! What a surprise, sass!” Literal translation: Ugh! Find surprise (what a surprise; sarcastic), fire-ness.
> 
> Zaghai** — “rite of passage”; literally zagh (mountain pass) + hai (folk)
> 
> Zaghai-nazg** — rite-of-passage rings
> 
> **Words I created by combining fragments of Tolkien’s original Black Speech


End file.
